In a town called Enfield there is a pub. And in the pub there is a garden. And in that garden there is…a petting zoo. And in that petting zoo, after passing the sheep, pigs and ferrets sits a proud and haughty Iguana.
His sign claims that his natural habitat is Chile and Mexico. Yet here he is. Lazing in a blue painted concrete room, on a branch screwed to the wall.
I wonder what he thinks as he gazes out at the pressed up kiddie faces and accompanying adults taking time away from a pint to discover this strange corner of the garden. The endless parade of faces. The gradual reddening as the day wears on.
When he has had enough of the crowds there is a cubby hole to which he can toddle off to that somewhat hides him from a more public view. I say somewhat, because the window from that retreat looks out into the male lavatory. Above the urinal. A sign helpfully asks that you don’t knock on the glass when he’s in his safe space.
I think that it would be nice if there was a sign on the interior too. Reminding Iggy that knocking on the glass may disturb the animals and cause them to pee on each other. It would go some way in explaining his air of superiority.